When My Job's Done, You'll be the One who Knows
by Beanpot
Summary: A prequel of sorts to Family Recipes, featuring a younger Cam and his beloved Gran'ma.Frances settled herself into the rocking chair her husband, god rest his soul, had built for, picked up her knitting, and waited for that ungrateful little brat of a gra


Summary: A prequel of sorts to **Family Recipes **featuring a younger Cam and his beloved Gran'ma. 

_Frances settled herself into the rocking chair her husband, god rest his soul, had built for, picked up her knitting, and waited for that ungrateful little brat of a grandchild of hers to come home. _**  
**

**When My Job's Done, You'll Be the One Who Knows**

Frances Mitchell stood in her domain and slowly stirred the raspberry jam that was bubbling on the stove. Her eyes were simultaneously making sure the thick sugary concoction reached the right viscosity and keeping an eye on the driveway. They were late and Mitchells are never late. She was pulling the last of the jars out of the sterilizing boiling water when she heard the hum of tires switching from asphalt to dirt. A smile on her lips, she wiped her hands on her apron and walked onto the porch to greet her family.

The smile faded as Frances watched them unfold from the car. Wendy was the first out; she stepped around to the passenger side to help Frank out of the car. Frank was her youngest child and after a rough pregnancy and delivery, no one, certainly not her husband, flinched when Frances named him after herself. It pained her to see how he still physically struggled with the loss of his legs. But it had only been about 3 years and these things took time. There was a flash of orange as Andrew stumbled out of the car and flew towards his grandma. He had just turned 10 and Frances knew she had only a few months at best before he stared shrugging off hugs from Gran'ma. As she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in, she glanced up to see Cameron finally emerge.

Frances's heart broke. Wendy had warned her that Cameron was not handling things as well as they first thought. Frances had told her daughter-in-law that he was barely a teen-ager and over dramatic angst was to be expected. But Wendy had been right, something else was wrong as Frances took in the slouch of his shoulders, the way he shuffled up the driveway, and most importantly, the way he avoided looking at his father.

She kept one arm wrapped around Andrew's shoulders as Cameron fumbled his way up the porch steps and into the house with only a blank stare as a hello to his Gran'ma. She looked down at her youngest grandchild, who seemed hurt by the disdain of his older brother, and bit back the sigh that came to her lips. It was going to be a long summer.

Frances's prediction proved to be true as Cameron spent the first week either skulking through the woods, rambling through the tiny hamlet on his own, or jumping off the old railroad bridge into the creek. Basically, doing anything to avoid being with his family. She allowed this to go on as she gathered information and lay out her battle plan; it also gave the rest of the Mitchell family a reprieve from the tension Cameron carried with him into rooms.

Frances's Poppa had been a great battle commander in both the Great War and the Greater War, as he deemed it, and he would spend hours using tiny metal men to show his daughters how to take a ridge or fight back a surge of men. From her mother and the rest of the family women-folk, she had learned the other ways of fighting a war, and bringing Cameron back around was going to be a war. So 8 days into a 3 week stay, she mentioned to Wendy about how Frances's beloved sister Emma was aching to see some family. She was up in that big ol' house by her lonesome, and sure could use the company of family. It would be no bother at all if Wendy was to leave Cameron with his Gran'ma as she could use the help in the yard. Her daughter-in-law was no dummy, even if she was from the North, so she packed up her husband and youngest son and drove to Aunt Emma's for a spell. Frances settled herself into the rocking chair her husband, god rest his soul, had built for, picked up her knitting, and waited for that ungrateful little brat of a grandchild of hers to come home.

Two hours later, she saw him, wet to the bone and limping. Frances had raised many a boy, her own and the other neighborhood rascals, and she knew that limp meant he had been in a fight. The rocking chair clicked against the boards of the porch as her tension melded with the wood. Cameron paused when he came to the end of the driveway, her peripheral vision catching him glance around for the car and pausing at the sight of her on the porch. He had no other choice but pass by her and he was not pleased at the idea. His steps seemed to be encased in molasses as he made his way to her. The first step creaked, than the second, the third, and just as his hand reached the doorknob, Frances spoke. "There is iodine in the upstairs cupboard. Clean up your cuts, get some ice out of the freezer, then come back out here. I've some work that needs doing."

"Aw, come on, lady…"

"I am not a lady, I am your grandmother. You'll hike your little butt upstairs then come back down as there is work that needs doing." Frances looked up and met Cameron's eye with the look that had earned her the nickname "Sarge" at the USO dances from long ago. Whatever smartass comment that was about to grace his lips froze at the look and the breeze left by his race upstairs tussled the yarn in her basket. Lordy, that child was going to be the death of her. She turned her head toward the grove of oak and magnolia trees where all Mitchells were buried. "Henry, I'm going to need some help here. That grandson of ours is on a bad path."

When Cameron returned to the porch, Frances walked him over to the barn, still smelling of the earthy sweetness of the tobacco that used to grow in the fields, and handed him a hand mower and a rake. He rolled his eyes and Frances whapped him on the back of the head. "The grass needs mowing, no one has done it properly since your granddaddy died. I trust you can."

Cameron stared at the mower with a look of utter disdain. "This is old. Why can't you get one of those new ones with a motor?"

"I'm old and my motor works just fine. Yours will work better. Now get to work, child."

She left him there and headed back inside the house. For the next few hours, she watched Cameron wrestle with the hand mower as it got caught on sticks, had to have the cuttings pulled out of the blades, and just refused to cut certain areas. When he was finally done, and his skin was red from the sun and anger, she called him to the porch, "Cameron! Hurry up now, I've made lemonade and muffins."

He glanced up at her, then back at the mower, and kicked it before walking away. She handed him a tall glass filled with lemonade and a plate of blueberry muffins, still warm. Fresh buttered melted deep into the moist insides, sprinkled with blueberries fresh from the woods and specks of orange that enlivened the taste. Cameron ate them in two bites each and gulped the tart juice in huge swallows. Frances let him finish his glass before saying, "Grass needs to be raked now. There are bags in the barn."

Cameron only nodded, the anger temporarily beaten out of him by a good day's work. She watched him for a moment before heading back inside to pull the chicken parts out of their buttermilk bath. There were also enough blueberries left over for a cobbler. Later that night, she turned to Cameron, whose head was almost drooping into his warm cobbler and cream, and said, "Did your daddy ever tell you the story of how his brothers painted him purple and dropped him off in the middle of town, asleep and naked?" Cameron jerked awake and hung on her every word, and for a moment, she heard a chuckle.

The routine continued for days. Frances would hand Cameron a list of chores and he would head out. They'd have lunch on the porch and he would grunt responses to her questions, mostly because he was so tired from splitting logs, trimming bushes, and weeding the garden. At night, she would feed him dinner before feeding him stories of the past. Of how she sailed across the great Atlantic when her beloved Henry had been wounded. Or how Henry had literally dipped her braid into an inkwell in school. Or how Frank and Henry Jr. had once set fire to the barn then put it out with lemonade. By the third night, he was asking for more details and Frances smiled.

Then Tuesday rolled around and Frances started baking for her sewing circle night. Cameron hovered in the doorway, even though he was supposed to be organizing the attic. But the air was oppressive with heat and water that made things sticky instead of clean, so she had given him a reprieve. Instead, she handed him a rag and spray bottle filled with vinegar and water and ordered him to shine the mirrors, dust the furniture, and lay out the good silverware for the ladies. For once, he did so without a moment of complaint or eye rolling. And as she stirred the lemon curd for the tarts, she heard a faint noise waif in from the front parlor and realized Cameron was whistling.

Later, after the ladies had settled in for the night, Miss Sally suddenly spoke up, "Cameron, child, stop hovering in the doorway and come here. I need your help with this yarn." Frances watched as he cautiously entered the room, looking very much like Daniel being fed to a den of starving lions. Which, in all honesty, was the truth.

"My word, Frances! He looks just like your Henry. Won't he be the ladies man when he grows up! Let's hope he doesn't loose his pants as much as his granddaddy," said Cindy as she fingers played a soft version of Nearer My God to Thee. She turned her head to look at Cameron, whose mouth was wrapped around a lemon tart as Sally wrapped yarn around his upturned hands. "Did your Gran'ma ever tell you the time we stole the boys' pants when they went jumping off the railroad bridge?" His eyes grew big and he shook his head no.

Frances leaned back against her sofa, her shoulders finally relaxing as she watched a sparkle return to Cameron's eyes as her nearest and dearest friends fed him stories and tarts. She chuckled as Myrtle surreptitiously handed him a glass of her special lemonade, with flavoring from her "fun flask". He choked on it, but a little whiskey never killed a boy. By the end of the night, Lorraine had him stitching a few rows on his own and he proudly showed it off as the ladies oohed and awed, causing the tips of his ears to turn pink. She shooed him off to bed, long before the ladies would leave, but right before the cards came out, and as he stood on the landing, he turned and said, "Gran'ma the lawn needs to be mowed again. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to take care of that tomorrow."

"Of course, child. You can use that new fangled motorized one your daddy bought for me." She glanced up and met her grandson grin for grin. His foot pivoted off the landing and he slipped back into the parlor, and grazed her cheek with a brief kiss. "I'm sorry, Gran'ma."

Frances reached up and pulled him into a half hug, rubbing a hand up and down his back. "It's okay, Cameron. It will all be okay."

The next evening as the fireflies took the skies and sky was streaked with gold, the Mitchell car pulled into the driveway and Cameron jumped off the porch to meet them. He reached his hand out and helped pull his dad from the car. With a smile, he said, "Hey, Dad. Gran'ma and I made you some macaroons this morning."


End file.
